Sex Heals
by sharp2799
Summary: Tag to “Love Hurts.” At the end of that disastrous date, House takes Cameron home. House/Cameron


He took her home in silence and waited for her to get out of the car. He finally looked at her when she didn't move.

She sat there with a sad and determined face.

Silence.

He wanted to say something sarcastic to get her to leave. Something to reestablish their work relationship. Debt paid, let's now return to the weird, fucked-up dynamic that is theirs.

The silence continued. Finally, he couldn't take it any longer. He got out of the car with his cane, limped to the other side, and opened the door. She continued to sit.

"It's customary to get out when someone opens the door."

She didn't look at him. "I know. But I think some things need to be addressed."

He rolled his eyes. "Date's over. Obligation fulfilled. Now we go to work tomorrow."

"Not just yet." She looked up at him with something he couldn't define. It disturbed him. _What was she doing?_

"Your place or mine?"

He thought he misheard, realized he hadn't. "I tell you that you're only attracted to damaged men and you want to fuck?" He deliberately made it sound crude.

"Yes." And there was her smile, full, brilliant. "You've defined me. So…your place or mine?"

He gazed at her for a long moment. "You think this will turn into a relationship of undying love?"

"Well," she crossed her legs, and his eyes slid to where her dress hitched up. "Actually, I think you pretty much screwed that. So we're left with the sex option." Her smile grew a bit more brittle and taut. "Or is that only when hookers would…do?"

_Did she just suggest he couldn't perform?_

He slammed the door shut and got back behind the wheel. They arrived at his apartment in silence.

She took off her coat and neatly laid it on the couch and looked at him expectantly.

"Do you want a drink?" He was already reaching for the scotch.

"No. It might dull my response time."

His hand froze, clutching the bottle. He looked at her incredulously. "Are _you_ trying to manipulate _me_?"

She shrugged. "If you need the drink, then drink."

The bottle slammed back down. She was playing _him_? He felt anger rising and a faint hint of panic. His mouth thinned. Let her see exactly what sort of bastard he could be.

"Bedroom. Now." He gestured.

She smiled and shook her head. "Kitchen. Now." She reached behind her and pulled the zipper down. The dress opened and pooled at her feet as she stepped out of it, clad in a bra, panties, stockings held up by a lacy black garter belt, and heels.

Words failed him. He reached for her, thumbs sliding under her bra to caress her nipples, tongue rolling inside her mouth, his pelvis flush against her body. She gave a gasp as his tongue mimicked his hips, then rubbed against him like a cat in heat.

He unclasped her bra, peeled the straps off her shoulders and dropped it to join her dress. He lightly pinched her nipples, taking first one, then the other in his mouth until she moaned and clutched at his shoulders. Then his hands slid down, ready to undo the garters and tug her panties off, but her hands intercepted his and guided him to the tiny bows on the side. He tugged, and the ties unraveled. A silken scrap of material fluttered to the floor. French-tie panties. Holy shit.

He took a shaky step back and stared at Allison Cameron, naked except for the garter belt and stockings and shoes that suddenly screamed _fuck me_. She smiled a smug little smile and turned to the kitchen. Helpless, he followed, watching her ass sway and beckon.

She looked over her shoulder. "Hungry?" And laughed lightly before hopping onto the countertop, legs crossed.

He pressed his hands on her knees, uncrossing her legs, and tilted her so that he could bend down and flick his tongue between her thighs. She gasped and closed her eyes.

He glanced up. "Keep them open."

"Don't-know-if-I-can," she panted as he licked and suckled.

"Do it," was all he said, his attention elsewhere.

She watched the top of his head as he continued to make her squirm, and she groaned as he moved a finger deep inside. Then two. She rolled her hips, feeling wet and ready and needing more.

"Fuck me."

He glanced up again, smiled, and stood straight, opening his belt. She helped him, pulling down the zipper and tugging his pants to just above the scar.

He opened the kitchen drawer and pulled out a condom.

"Prepared, I see."

"Aren't you glad?" He rolled it on with practiced ease.

"Ecstatic."

He grinned again and bent down to suckle once more, enjoying her gasp, before thrusting his hips and entering her slowly.

"F-fuck."

"Thought that's what I was doing."

"Shut up."

"You first." He smirked as she glared at him, and, almost without thought, brushed her hair from her forehead, sticky with sweat. Then he moved, thrusting inside her again and again, gripping her hips tight enough to leave marks. Something dark and primal rose up inside him. He wanted to leave bruises. He wanted to mark her.

Her hand slid between them and began its own dance as he steadily slid in and out. Then she stiffened, contracting around him, her back arching, her head thrown back, eyes closed, a grimace on her face that might have been mistaken for pain, had she not opened her eyes a moment later and smiled. It was a feline, cat's-smug smile.

He waited, trembling with self-control, promising his leg any number of painkillers if it would just hang on a little longer.

"House?"

"Yeah?"

"Fuck me till you come."

He twitched inside her at her words and thrust a few more times, pounding hard into her, needing to finish before his goddamned leg collapsed under him. And then he whited out behind his eyes, breathing heavily, forehead pressed against hers as her arms reached out to cradle his body.

He slid out of her wetly, limp, her fluids coating him. He disposed of the condom with a practiced throw to the garbage can, and wet the kitchen towel to wipe himself clean. Then he handed her another.

"Thank you."

He watched, brooding, while she cleaned herself up.

She got off the counter with an awkward, stiff movement. "Out of shape," she shrugged. She walked into the living room and bent to pick up the scrap of satin and lace when he pressed against her.

Startled, she froze. "House?"

"Get into bed."

At her look of confusion, he added, "I'm too tired to drive you home."

"I can call a c—"

"Allison." His voice was quiet. "Get into bed." He touched her hair with one brief touch, an almost embarrassed expression flitting across his face.

She nodded and walked into his bedroom. He tossed two Vicodin down his throat, gulped some water from the tap and after placing the glass in the dish drainer, leaned on his cane and followed.

He ran a hand over his face. He didn't know what the fuck just happened (well yes, actually, he did), but this wasn't the angry, easy screw he thought it would be to make her hate him.

He stripped and slid in beside her and pulled her body against his, her ass pressed against his groin, carefully weighted to avoid his leg, his hand cupped around one breast.

"House?" Her voice was uncertain. "What are you doing?" _What are we doing?_

"Going to sleep. You can let your boss know tomorrow that you're going to be late. Tell him you have car trouble. Dumb bastard will believe you—he never gets laid enough to believe it happens to other people."

"Poor guy." Her hand covered his. "He doesn't know what he's missing."

He was almost asleep when Cameron whispered, "House?"

He grunted, hoping she didn't want to _talk_ now.

"I think—I might be having a lot of car trouble in the future." Her voice was hesitant.

"I know you are."

Without even meaning to, he moved her hair away from the back of her neck and kissed the skin there softly.

She hummed in her throat, her balance restored, and followed him into sleep.


End file.
